


your dancesong soul

by fragileanimals



Series: love is the air the ocean and the land [2]
Category: Wonder Woman (2017)
Genre: Epilogue, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-30
Updated: 2017-07-30
Packaged: 2018-12-08 17:02:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11650911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fragileanimals/pseuds/fragileanimals
Summary: Steve is only mildly horrified to find the state dancing is in in the 21st century.(Epilogue tobeing to timelessness as it’s to time.)





	your dancesong soul

**Author's Note:**

> I thought about making this part of the original fic, but I liked it better on its own— part of the series but still separate. Title comes from e. e. cummings’ poem _in the rain-_. Can you tell I like his poetry?

Captain Steven Rockwell Trevor is only mildly horrified to find the state dancing is in in the 21st century.

_What are they doing?_ he asks Diana when the music quiets for a moment, tilting his head, squinting as if that’ll make it better. 

She’s sitting next to him on a stool in the small bar, which has only a patch of worn tiles to masquerade as a dance floor, waiting on Sammy’s great-granddaughter, who lives not far from Diana’s Paris apartment. A couple of years back, the girl, a journalist by the name of Nour, had reached out, wondering about the connection between her relative and Diana after seeing a copy of the picture on some deep region of the internet. 

_Trust me,_ Diana says, absently, taking his hand as she scans the bar for the girl. _You do not want to know._

Nour had reached out via physical mail, which had impressed Diana most, as young people preferred to correspond electronically. Diana, however, misses the intimacy of the handwritten letter, finding that something, a certain _je ne sais quoi,_ is lost in the cold, impersonal typefaces of the common era.

_Ms. Prince,_ Nour had written, in a bubbly but endearing script, _I believe we have someone in common. If you wish to discuss this matter further, please contact me._

Now, every few months or so, she and Diana meet to exchange stories, old and new. She’s a lovely girl, a journalist, and Diana has taken quite a liking to her. She is, in so many ways, completely like Sammy, with those big brown eyes and the effortless effervescence that had drawn so many to her great-grandfather. It comforts Diana immensely to see that her friend lives on.

_That isn’t dancing,_ Steve says, turning back to her. His face is comically serious. _That’s public indecency. A hundred years ago, you could be arrested for that._

She can’t help but laugh. Despite his dismay, her sudden delight reflects off his face, softening its edges.

_I know, Steve,_ is all she says, because isn’t the first time they’ve had this conversation. Instead, she moves closer, slips gracefully off her barstool to stand beside him. An invitation.

_You want to show them how it’s done?_ he asks, resting his weight on his elbow, on the counter. Before she has time to answer, he’s already climbing off his own stool; for a moment, they just stand, face-to-face.

_It would be a public service,_ Diana says, with a nod. Her eyes flicker to his lips and back up.

His eyes crinkle at the edges when he says, _Well, and,_ he says, allowing himself to be led to the edge of the dance floor, _I know how you feel about public service._  
The music is loud and foreign, the neon lights too bright and flashing, but she presses herself against him anyway, spine straight, and he wraps his arm around her waist as he had done all those years ago.

It is not a particularly slow song, but that hardly matters. It’s their first dance since 1918, and they’ll have it to whatever they damn well please.

His hands is warm and calloused in hers, just as it had been a century ago in the middle of a war-torn courtyard. She pulls it over her heart, so he can feel how it beats in time to their swaying, and she thinks, again: _This is it._

This is what all of it had been for, the battles and the wars and the heartbreak and the loss; all of those things had had to happen in order for two people who loved each other to dance in a poorly-lit bar without fear. When she looks at Steve, she can tell he’s thinking the same.

When she leans back in to put her head on his shoulder, he’s awfully close. Nose in her hair, rough stubble on his jaw just tickling her cheek.

She wouldn’t have it any other way.

(A little later, when Nour comes in, shaking off her rain-wet umbrella, she won’t have any trouble finding them. Ms. Prince, she knows, and she’d have to be a fool not to know the man in her arms, each watching the other as though they’re the only other person in the world.

She takes one look at them, unseen, and slips back out the door. The meeting can wait.)

**Author's Note:**

> Just so you know, I picture them having this dance to the [Lafayette remix of “Le chrome et le coton”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?time_continue=1&v=lNDxMXyXRio) by Jérôme Echenoz, the [lyrics](http://lyricstranslate.com/en/le-chrome-et-le-coton-chrome-and-cotton.html) of which translate to “Deep in girls’ hearts, the chrome and the cotton.” For some reason I find this song super appropriate to Steve/Diana.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading. As always, commentary and constructive criticism are highly appreciated, if you can spare the time! ♥


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